


Stop Susie Selling Seashells

by KitsJay



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Humor, cabin pressure meme, martin's lisp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsJay/pseuds/KitsJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Douglas discovers Martin’s lisp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Susie Selling Seashells

**Author's Note:**

> We all know about Benedict Cumberbatch's lisp, yes? As a fellow speech therapist patient (rhotacism in my case, or as I prefer to call it, wail-woad-twack-syndwome), I just had to snap this prompt up.

There were numerous reasons why Douglas didn’t drink anymore, foremost among them two of his failed marriages; after that came his dismissal from his previous job, the loss of his rank, and the sheer cost of buying enough alcohol to drink himself into a stupor as often as possible. But somewhere down the list, not far from the top, was one particular night which found him inexplicably dressed only in a pair of socks in the middle of a frighteningly large pink monstrosity of a bed cover, and blowing the ends of a feather boa away from where it was tickling his nose. Thankfully the owner of said bed and boa had appeared to be away, so Douglas had found his clothes, sneaked out, and prayed no one the night before had any inclination to take pictures. He had never recovered his memories of what exactly had happened that night and had never had any desire to try.

In short, though Douglas was honest enough to admit that he did miss some things about drinking, he most emphatically did not miss the complete and utter idiot it turned otherwise rational people into after imbibing. And, while he was being honest, Martin wasn’t really rational to begin with.

“Come on, Martin, up you go,” Douglas coaxed, trying to bodily drag his inebriated captain into the hotel. It was much easier when he was unconscious. Currently he was trying to help by putting one foot in front of the other, only he kept getting distracted by trying to remember the steps to cha-cha at the same time. 

“What on earth was in those drinks?” Douglas asked, not a little amused as he finally lightly pushed Martin onto the bed. He collapsed without a protest, hitting the mattress and staring up at the ceiling as if trying to discover who was spinning the merry-go-round of mould and water stains above his head around and around. 

“Peach thnappth,” a drowsy voice drifted down as Douglas struggled with Martin’s shoes.

“Excuse me?” Douglas paused in his endeavours.

“Peach thnappth. I only had a few drinkth, though,” Martin said. Any belief that Martin was simply slurring his words, as any drunken sot was prone to do, abruptly left him. 

“Martin,” Douglas said evenly. “Can you say something for me?”

Martin struggled to sit up on one elbow, gave up the battle of balance, and finally settled on bending his torso in an improbable angle to meet Douglas’s gaze—sideways, but it was better than nothing. “What?”

“Susie sells shells by the seashore,” Douglas said. 

A slow tide of comprehension swept across Martin’s face; Douglas watched as a red blush followed the realisation and blossomed over his cheekbones, the tips of his ears, and down his neck. He glared at Douglas as best he could, though by the way his eyes were moving, Douglas would wager that he was trying to decide which Douglas to focus on. He flopped back to a more comfortable position just as Douglas pulled his shoes off and laid them neatly to the side.

“Well?”

“No,” Martin said stubbornly. 

“No? Why ever not?” Douglas asked mildly. He debated attempting to wrestle Martin’s jacket off, but judging by the petulant pout pushing his lower lip out and the mulish set to his jaw, there wasn’t a chance the man would allow him. Instead, Douglas settled himself on the bed next to Martin, delighting in this newfound nugget of information about his colleague. With Martin, every day was a treasure trove of delightful new avenues of teasing.

“You know perfectly well why not,” Martin shot back, sounding considerably more sober than he had a few moments ago. Anger apparently worked quite well to burn off the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream. Douglas also noted, with some small petty part of him, that Martin was pausing before he said anything, almost as if he were making certain that a certain sound was not present in any of his replies.

“Oh, very well, Martin,” Douglas said, feigning a sigh of resignation. “You caught me. Simon says, say Susie sells shells by the seashore.”

“We weren’t playing that,” Martin said confidently. He hesitated, a note of uncertainty curling into his voice. “Were we?”

Douglas was not above lying to get what he wanted, and he very much wanted to explore this hitherto undiscovered aspect of his captain. “Don’t you remember? We wagered the entire cheese tray on it. You’ve been doing very well so far, I must say, Martin. Far better than usual.”

Martin flushed again, this time with a warm smile. A delighted smile crossed his face and he even managed to tilt his head in Douglas’s directions. The pleased, proud look in his eyes was almost enough to make Douglas feel bad for lying to him; almost, but not quite. “Thank you, Dougla—Thank you, I mean.”

“So?” Douglas prompted.

“What?” Martin frowned, apparently having lost track of the conversation.

“Well, the point of the game is not only to not carry out an instruction when not prefaced by ‘Simon says’, but also to carry them out when they are. It would hardly be fair if you could blithely ignore all the commands,” Douglas pointed out fairly reasonably.

Martin stared at him evenly and Douglas met his gaze with his own placid one.

“Or you could sacrifice the cheese tray tomorrow. It is such a long flight though,” Douglas said.

With a groan, Martin threw an arm over his face. “Fine! Thuthie thellth thellth by the theathore.”

The corner of Douglas’s mouth twitched. “Martin,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “It appears that you have a bit of a—”

“Lithp, I know,” Martin said irritably. “And whoever put an eth in the word detherveth to be thot.”

The dire pronouncement sent Douglas into howls of laughter, until finally Martin’s tense shoulders and the trace of hurt on his face calmed him down. He reached out and patted Martin’s shoulder comfortingly. “Sorry, it’s just that you don’t have it any other time.”

Martin rolled his eyes and sighed. Douglas imagined it was only the dim haze of drunkenness still hanging over him that allowed him to take the ribbing as good-naturedly as he had been; had he been sober, he no doubt would have sulked horribly about it. “I do it more when I’m drunk or tired or nervouth.”

“Have you always had it?” Douglas asked curiously.

Martin nodded reluctantly. He was obviously concentrating very hard on what he said next, and only the barest traces of his lisp could be heard. “My dad put me in thpeech therapy for it, because my teachers could hardly understand me.”

“So you learned to speak without it,” Douglas said.

“Yeah,” Martin sighed. “I have to conthentrate, though.”

Douglas thought back and realised that Martin always had a particular way of speaking. He rarely spoke rapidly or without some deliberation behind the words, as if he were carefully focusing on them. He had taken it initially as an affectation, or even the traces of a posh accent picked up somewhere, but he supposed that Martin had cultivated it early and simply clung to it until it became habit. He couldn’t imagine how tiresome that must be; it was no wonder Martin slipped up when he hadn’t the energy to concentrate on his every word.

“Come on, Martin,” Douglas said, beginning to unbutton the front of Martin’s jacket. “I won’t bother you about it anymore.”

Martin peered at him suspiciously. “And you won’t mention it to the others?”

“Nary a word,” Douglas said solemnly. He helped Martin sit up, waiting for him to somewhat balance on his own before helping him pull off his sleeves. He added mildly, “Though really, Martin, I must say—”

“No, you really don’t have to,” Martin said desperately, somehow knowing what was coming next.

Douglas gave him a wide smile. “You really do sound utterly adorable.”

“I hate you,” Martin groaned, collapsing back onto the bed. His voice was muffled by the pillow and the strings of Morpheus pulling him under.

Douglas pulled the blankets over him, nearly tucking him in, and patted him on the shoulder.

“You don’t hate me, Martin,” he said as he walked out the door. “Though I’m thertain you may detetht me.”


End file.
